


Panama, Then and Now

by ThirtySixSaveFiles



Category: Uncharted (Video Games), Uncharted 4 - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Hand Jobs, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Prison, uncharted 4 spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-20
Updated: 2016-12-20
Packaged: 2018-09-10 14:01:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8919904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThirtySixSaveFiles/pseuds/ThirtySixSaveFiles
Summary: Nothing about the Panama job goes the way Sam expects it to: not getting in, not staying, and certainly not getting out.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to [jilldrawblog](http://jilldrawblog.tumblr.com) and [ledgem](http://ledgem.tumblr.com) for betaing and holding my hand through the writing process.

There’s no time to think when it happens; he’s scrambling over fences and across rooftops as klaxons blare out over the compound, sometimes in front of Nathan, sometimes behind him, but always barely, just barely outrunning the hail of bullets that follow them. Sam’s foot slips on the corrugated tin roofing and he goes flat on his back, bullets punching through the wall where his head had been a moment ago. He’s out of breath but he laughs anyway as he scrambles back to his feet, Nathan shouting frantically at him to  _ hurry up _ .

Luck is on Sam’s side, it seems - at least, it is right up until it isn’t.

Sam feels the impact before he feels the pain, and he has only a second the think  _ what the shit _ before his arm is going numb and he’s losing his grip. The last thing he sees as he falls is Rafe pulling Nathan back from the edge; Nathan’s face is creased with terrified disbelief, and Sam has just enough time to feel guilty about that before he hits the ground and everything goes black.

* * *

Sam doesn’t expect to wake up again, but he does. That’s a pleasant surprise - the only one, as it turns out. Sam feels like death warmed over when he cracks his eyes to the bare concrete of the prison infirmary; his body is one massive ache, and the way the guard looks at him when Sam raises his head promises more to come. That’s ok. Sam knows how to take a beating; he’s taken them before, can roll with the punches. At least he’s alive. He just has to hang on until Nathan and Rafe spring him. He can make it through a few days.

A few days turn into a week, and as Sam sits on the bare cot in his cell and wipes blood from his mouth, he tells himself a week is nothing. Nathan and Rafe are probably just getting organized. He’ll be out of here any day.

One week turns into two, and Sam tells himself it takes time to assemble the kind of bribe it would take to get him out of here. He tries not to jump at every sound, stomach swirling with anticipatory hope and fear.

Two weeks turn into a month, and Sam starts to worry that maybe  _ Nathan _ got hurt after Sam fell. Nathan wouldn’t have left Sam behind unless he had to. Sam tries to ignore the visions of Nathan with his leg in a cast or with bandages wrapped around his middle, and he  _ especially  _ tries to ignore the ones of Nathan lying too still in an alley, lost and forgotten and far out of Sam’s reach. The more Sam thinks about it - and there’s very little else to think about, in here - the more Sam thinks that that  _ must _ be what had happened. Sam has no illusions about his importance to Rafe Adler - sure, they may have had a, a  _ fling _ , but Sam knows what kind of man Rafe is, and with the St. Dismas cross firmly in hand Sam has no doubt that Rafe would consider Sam’s predicament  _ collateral damage _ .

Nathan, though. Sam knows his brother, and Nathan would move heaven and earth for the people he cares about. Nathan wouldn’t leave him behind.

Would he?

* * *

The first year Sam spends in prison is the worst of his life, and he’s had some pretty shitty years. He’s sick with worry over Nathan, trying not to get shanked in a prison-yard brawl while the guards “conveniently” look the other way, and at about the six month mark the grinding certainty hits that  _ no one is coming back for him _ . Sam’s on his own.

The second year manages to be even worse.

By the third year, though, Sam’s managed to find his footing, such as it is. He’s carved out a kind of place for himself in this corrupt, humid hellhole, and that’s - well, it’s something. Sam tries not to think too hard about much of anything, at this point. By the fifth year he’s stopped dreaming about soft mattresses, and by the seventh he no longer wakes up in a cold sweat with the sound of gunfire in his ears. By the twelfth year he no longer keeps track of days or weeks, but marks time by the slow, barely perceptible change of the seasons in this equatorial climate.

He never stops dreaming about escape, though.

When the guard drags him away from his dice game one balmy afternoon in the thirteenth year, Sam sighs and wonders which asshole is trying to make a name for himself  _ this _ time. The lifers stopped singling him out years ago, once Sam proved that he knew how to use his fists  _ and _ that he wasn’t afraid to, but there’s always a new guy on the block, always someone who thinks the foreigner is an easy target. The guard doesn’t take him to a suspiciously isolated corner of the yard, though, or the laundry, or the boiler room. The guard takes him straight to the warden’s office and Sam starts to get nervous, wondering what kind of shit he could have possibly stepped in.

No one will answer his questions. No one will  _ look _ at him, not really, not even as the warden stamps some papers, stuffs them in a slingbag and shoves it unceremoniously in Sam’s arms. “ _ Get him out _ ,” the warden snaps, and before Sam even knows what’s happening he’s being forcibly escorted toward the front of the prison and shoved through the front door. Sam stumbles, squinting against the late afternoon sunlight, and as he straightens the door clangs shut behind him with an ominous finality.

His first thought is,  _ holy shit _ . He’s out. He’s  _ out. _

His second is,  _ Nathan _ .

Because who else would come back for him after all this time? Who else would even know where he was - who else would  _ care _ , after thirteen fucking years? Sam draws in a deep breath - even the  _ air _ feels cleaner out here - and feels something like  _ hope _ rising in his chest.

“Yo, Sam! Over here, buddy.” Sam can’t make out the figure waving at him very well at first, backlit by the sun as it is, but that’s - that’s not Nathan’s voice. There’s no one Sam knows better on this earth than his brother, even after all this time, and that’s - that’s not him.

The figure steps forward, and the sunlight shifts and it’s  _ Rafe fucking Adler. _ He’s aged - he’s grown up - broader across the shoulders and with lines on his face Sam doesn’t remember, but that’s definitely Rafe Adler. There’s no sign of Nathan.

Sam stands on the steps in front of the prison he’s lived in for the last thirteen years and tries to remember how to breathe.

“Where’s -” He clears his throat and tries again. “Where’s Nathan?”

Rafe shrugs. “New Orleans, last I heard.” He raises his eyebrows. “Is that any way to greet the man who got you out of jail?”

“You - you did this?”

“You see anyone else standing here? And it wasn’t cheap, so you had better be worth it, Samuel.” Rafe moves around to the passenger side of the shiny, expensive-looking, and entirely out-of-place car he was leaning against and opens the door. “Get in. We’ve got a plane to catch.” It’s not a suggestion.

Sam’s feet start moving before he’s really aware of it, and as the engine turns over and the car pulls away from the curb he vaguely hears Rafe chattering about a private jet and a straight flight back to the States and jesus, inflation has really done a number on the cost of bribery around here, and through all of it the only thought in Sam’s head is  _ Nathan, Nathan, Nathan. _

Nathan’s  _ alive.  _ Alive and well, and in New Orleans apparently, and not - not here. Rafe’s here. Rafe’s here, and Nathan’s not.

Sam feels like he’s about to be sick.

He must make some sort of noise, because Rafe glances at him, then does a double-take, taking a hand off the wheel to put it on Sam’s back. Sam flinches involuntarily - not a lot of people have touched him over the last thirteen years, and most of them were decidedly not friendly. Rafe’s mouth goes flat under his sunglasses.

“Whoah, whoah, don’t throw up on me here. Head between your knees, come on now, breathe.” He presses and Sam bends forward, following direction, and somehow it  _ is _ easier to breathe down here. He closes his eyes and concentrates on the movement of air in his lungs, in and out, in and out, and on the warmth of Rafe’s hand on his back.

“That’s it.” Rafe’s voice filters through the darkness. “I’ve got you.”

* * *

Sam is amazed at how simple it all is, in the end.

They breeze through checkpoints, security officers waving them on with the joviality of the recently-bribed. Rafe drives with the assurance of a man who knows he can’t be touched, and Sam  _ does _ remember that. It’s funny, the things that stick with you - Sam hadn’t thought much at all about Rafe beyond those first agonizing months, but when he did it was Rafe’s confidence that he remembered, the somewhat impatient expectation that every problem had a solution, whether it was time or expertise or money.

Sam wonders what problem Rafe thinks he’s solving right now.

Rafe drives them right onto the tarmac at a tiny, private airport, and sure enough there’s a small passenger plane being fueled and prepped for takeoff. Rafe brings the car right up alongside the plane and kills the engine, tossing the keys to a waiting man as he gets out. Sam slowly follows, clutching his bag, and as soon as he shuts the passenger door behind him the man peels out, tires screeching as the car vanishes back the way they came.

Sam looks after it, shading his eyes. “Was that his car?”

Rafe looks at him like Sam is being deliberately stupid. “It is now.” He smacks Sam’s arm with the back of his hand. “Come on, hop to it. I can’t wait to shake the dust from this shitty country off my boots.” He slants a sideways looks at Sam. “I can’t imagine how you must feel.”

_ No, you can’t _ , Sam thinks, suddenly irrationally angry, but this is not the place and this is definitely not the time to piss Rafe off so he swallows it and follows Rafe up the stairs. Leaving the humid Panamanian climate for the cool recycled air of the jet feels like entering another world. As Sam sits down opposite Rafe and the lone flight crew member closes the cabin door behind them, sealing them off from the cockpit, Sam is suddenly struck by the fear that this is some sort of fever dream, a very vivid, very  _ lucid _ hallucination; that if he closes his eyes, when he opens them he’ll be back on his cot behind bars in a prison he’s never ever getting out of. He tips his head back against the headrest as the plane starts to taxi and tries to concentrate on his breathing, but as the plane lifts off he can’t tell if the dropping in his stomach is the elevation change or the beginning of a panic attack.

Rafe’s foot nudges his while Sam stares fixedly at the ceiling. “Don’t recall you being afraid of flying.”

Sam chuckles weakly. “I’m not.” His voice is a lot more strained than he wants it to be.

“Hm.” There’s a considering noise from across the aisle, then the  _ clink _ of a seat belt being undone and suddenly Sam’s lap is full of warm body and he opens his eyes -  _ fuck _ , when did he close them - to Rafe straddling his legs and staring at him from inches away.

“Then what  _ are _ you afraid of, Samuel Drake?” Rafe’s hand is firm on Sam’s jaw, although even without it Sam doubts he would look away. For a second he considers spilling everything -  _ that this is all a dream; that you’re a very convincing hallucination; that my brother has moved on without me. _

But Rafe is like a shark, and Sam’s bled too much in front of him already. So he smiles lazily, cheeks pulling against Rafe’s hand. “Not a thing in this world,” he says, and Rafe’s eyes glint in appreciation.

“Good answer,” he says, leaning in. “Not true, but good answer.” Rafe presses their lips together and for all that Sam’s the smoker Rafe’s the one who tastes like ash. Rafe kisses him slowly and this is strange and foreign and all too familiar, the ghost of a life left behind made flesh before him. Sam’s surprised to find himself shaking. Rafe settles himself more firmly on Sam’s lap, murmuring what are probably supposed to be comforting nothings against his neck - “It’s all right,” “I’ve got you,” - that Sam doesn’t believe for a second. He  _ wants _ to, wants nothing more than to believe Rafe when he says “you’re safe now,” but Sam knows this man and Rafe Adler is not  _ safe. _

Or at least, he  _ knew _ Rafe. A lot can change in thirteen years, but somehow Sam doubts that Rafe is one of them.

Rafe licks a stripe up his neck and Sam shudders. He’s suddenly reminded that he hasn’t showered, still covered in the dust and sweat of the prison yard, but Rafe doesn’t seem to mind, getting a hand between them and pressing down on Sam’s dick. Sam’s  _ really _ not sure about that, but his dick practically leaps into Rafe’s hand, stiffening and aching for a touch that isn’t his own.

“Just like old times, eh?” Rafe chuckles as he strokes Sam through his pants. “Still so eager.”

“You would be too, if you’d been locked up for over a decade.” It’s a weak retort but it’s the best Sam can do at the moment. He tries to shift his legs wider to rock his hips up into Rafe’s hand, but Rafe bears down on him, pinning him in place.

“Yeah, you’re probably right.” Rafe lifts his hand away, making a small  _ shh _ sound at Sam’s involuntary whine of protest. “Good thing for you I’m so accommodating, hm?” He undoes first Sam’s belt and then his own, and when he wraps his hand around the both of them and strokes it feels like the groan tears its way out of Sam’s chest.

It’s over embarrassingly quickly; Sam just has to close his eyes and let Rafe’s hand and voice and dick rubbing against Sam’s own carry him away. Before he knows it he’s gasping and tensing up, hips jerking futilely under Rafe’s weight as he comes harder than he has in a long time. Rafe goans, and as Sam opens his eyes he sees Rafe staring intently down at him, hair - longer, now, than the boyish cut Sam remembers - falling down the sides of his face. Sam reaches out and brushes his thumb over Rafe’s lips and Rafe catches the pad between his teeth, biting down. Sam can’t help the hurt little noise he makes, and Rafe grins around Sam’s fingers, groaning again as his own release stripes Sam’s shirt. Rafe releases Sam’s thumb and presses a kiss to it before letting Sam pull away. Sam sags back in his seat, suddenly feeling like he’s been run over by a truck. It’s been a hell of a day - and as the sweat and come start drying he suddenly feels  _ disgusting _ . He looks down and picks at his shirt in dismay. 

“Relax, I’ve got you covered” Rafe says, shifting back and tucking himself back in his pants. Sam takes that as his cue to do the same. “Shower’s behind you. There’s a change of clothes too.”

Out of everything that’s happened today - out of everything Rafe’s  _ done _ for him - this small act of kindness is apparently Sam’s breaking point and he gulps in a breath that’s definitely not a sob. Rafe smirks down at him but he lets it pass, lifting himself off of Sam’s legs and resettling in the opposite seat.

“Go on,” he says, waving generously at Sam. “Get cleaned up. Then we’ll talk.”

Sam stills.  _ Here it comes.  _ He hasn’t forgotten what Rafe had said when he picked him up outside of the prison -  _ you had better be worth it. _

A man like Rafe doesn’t do anything for free. Sam just has to figure out what kind of price Rafe is asking.

And all of a sudden it comes to him.

“You never found Avery’s treasure.” Rafe raises his eyebrows but Sam knows he’s right about this, he knows it in his gut. “But you’ve found something else.”

Rafe huffs. “Glad to see you didn’t go senile in there.” He reaches into his back pocket and draws out a piece of paper, unfolding it to show a blurred photocopy of a picture of a very familiar cross. “Remember this?”

Sam would know it in his sleep; the St. Dismas cross has haunted his dreams almost every night for the last thirteen years. This one, though - Sam frowns as he takes the paper and leans forward, shower forgotten in the face of a puzzle. “This isn’t -” he looks back up at Rafe, realization dawning. “There’s more than one cross.”

“Bingo. See, I knew getting you out wasn’t a mistake.” Rafe settles back in his seat and Sam ignores the implication there. It’s easy to do with the old frisson of excitement rising, the thrill of a chase gone dormant shaking off the dust and coming alive again. Letting  _ Sam _ come alive again. “There is a second cross - one that’s still complete. And you, my friend, are going to help me find it. Aren’t you?”

“Oh, hell yes,” Sam breathes, looking back down at the photocopy in his hand. In this moment, he would promise Rafe anything; Rafe has given him the chase, the treasure, his  _ life _ back. Rafe has given him  _ everything _ , and Sam couldn’t ask for anything more, except -

_ Nathan.  _ For a brief moment, Sam thinks about his brother with a faint twinge of guilt - but the moment is fleeting, and it’s easily pushed aside. There’ll be - there’ll be time for Nathan later.

Nathan is apparently getting along well enough without Sam, after all.

Sam looks back up at Rafe and grins, feeling the last thirteen years of misery begin to slough off. 

“So where do we start?”

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me at [ThirtySixSaveFiles](http://thirtysixsavefiles.tumblr.com) on Tumblr!


End file.
